C. Palov - Ark of Fire

Only two more days.

Two days until Eid al-Adha. The Muslim Day of Sacrifice. The day when two million Muslims would be gathered at Mecca. And when those two million infidels learned that the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem had been destroyed, they would go on a violent and bloody rampage. That rampage would incite them to take up arms against Christians and Jews. To become the fierce and bloodthirsty army of Gog. As foretold by the prophet Ezekiel.

A battle between Good and Evil would ensue.

But this time the crusaders will be victorious.

With the destruction of the gaudy and heathenish Dome of the Rock, the beloved Children of God would finally be delivered from the Islamic tyranny, the gold-plated shrine having been built over the exact site where Solomon’s Temple once stood. For the first time in eight hundred years, God’s sacred parcel, the Temple Mount, would again be a place of holy worship.

Obliterating the Dome of the Rock from the Jerusalem skyline had been planned to the last detail; the Muslims had actually simplified the mission op. For years now the Islamic Trust, the supposed caretakers of the Temple Mount, had turned a blind eye to the six-hundred-foot-long bulge in the southern wall. Given its present condition, the ancient foundation wall was already in a severely weakened state. With the insertion of a few carefully placed IEDs, the wall would come tumblin’ down, bringing with it the newly built al-Marwani mosque that had been constructed on the southern end of the Temple Mount. In the ensuing chaos, his demolition experts would then be able to set a ring of high-powered explosives around the exterior perimeter of the closely guarded Dome of the Rock.

The old bait and switch.

The infidels would never know what hit them.

With the second explosion, the path would literally be cleared for the construction of the Third Temple.

Only then could the Ark of the Covenant be returned to its anointed place within the Holy of Holies. Only then could the Ark become the vehicle through which heaven and earth become one. And only then could a new covenant be made between man and God, paving the way for a holy kingdom that would prosper for a thousand years. A true theocracy where nonbelievers would be judged swiftly and harshly. One Christian nation under God.

“Sir, the sentries just made their rounds and have given the all clear.”

Stan glanced at his gunnery sergeant, who stood in the doorway. The sitrep did little to allay his fears. So far, the lanky Englishman had proven a worthy adversary, somehow managing to kill two of his best men. Though he was certain that Aisquith had no way of knowing the Ark had been brought to Malta, he couldn’t forget that the man had done what many before him had tried and failed to do—he’d found the Ark of the Covenant.

“Keep me posted.”

Snatching the night-vision goggles, Stan walked over to the window. Elbows braced on the limestone sill, he returned his gaze to the sea.

One if by land, two if by sea.

He chuckled, amused by the thought. Like the founding fathers, he, too, was about to launch a revolution. One of biblical proportions.

CHAPTER 83

Hurriedly Caedmon made his way up the treacherous path cut into the side of the limestone cliff, grateful for the faint light shed by the cluster of stars overhead. Particularly because he couldn’t risk using the torch. At least not until he had reached the summit and surveyed the area. MacFarlane would undoubtedly have sentries posted. Men who would not hesitate to shoot at a stray beam of light.

His forty-year-old knees aching from the strenuous ascent, he was very much aware of the fact that he no longer had the power and might of Her Majesty’s government behind him. He was on his own. The lone and hungry wolf.

He snorted, amused by the thought.

In sheep’s clothing, I daresay.

Huffing slightly, he reached the top, the top being a treeless, rocky plateau. About two hundred meters to the northwest, he could discern the outline of St. Paul’s tower, the only visible landmark on the barren escarpment. Once, long centuries ago, the Knights of St. John had used the tower to signal ships at sea. Wishing he had a pair of night-vision goggles, he thought he saw what looked to be a large military transport truck parked beside the tower.

MacFarlane could possibly have the Ark stored inside St. Paul’s tower. Out of sight from prying eyes. Or stowed inside the truck, ready for transport.

Standing motionless, he scanned the rocky terrain, searching for a telltale sound or a blurred bit of motion. Something to indicate that he was not alone. That others lurked in the shadows.

A good two minutes passed before he saw a faint flicker, little more than a pinprick of light.

A burning cigarette.

The target sighted, he set forth.

As he navigated his way across the bramble-strewn escarpment, his thoughts turned to the Knights of St. John, who for nearly three centuries had patrolled those same craggy heights, safeguarding their domain from Turkish corsairs. During the Great Siege of 1565, sixty of those stalwart knights had defended the fort at St. Elmo against a Turkish force numbering eight thousand strong. Perhaps this night, history would repeat itself.

Lord, he hoped so. The thought that he might never again set his gaze upon Edie Miller’s face left him bereft.

He quickly shoved the wayward thought aside, turning his attention to the man negligently leaning against a large slab of limestone, a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

And an H&K MP5 submachine gun cradled against his chest.

Though it was difficult to see in the murky shadows, Caedmon assumed the man’s finger was on the trigger and that the safety had been disengaged.

Coming to a standstill, keeping to the shadows cast by the limestone outcropping, he slid the five-inch diving knife from its sheath. The hilt securely grasped in his right hand, he inched forward, hoping the sentry didn’t suddenly spin around. Praying he didn’t inadvertently kick a loose stone. To his dismay, he saw that the other man had a communications device protruding from the side of his head.

If the sentry so much as whimpered, the game would be over before it even began.

Caedmon slowed his breathing. An age-old trick to calm one’s nerves.

Then, having come to within two feet of the sentry, he lunged forward.

In one smooth, surefooted motion, the movement ingrained from his long-ago training, he grasped the other man from the rear, clasping a hand over his mouth as he yanked his head back, exposing the jugular vein and carotid artery. First he slashed. Then he ripped.

Warm blood gushed from the opened artery.

A silent kill.

As the sentry dropped to the ground, Caedmon shoved his finger into the weapon’s trigger guard and yanked the H&K MP5 out of the dying man’s grasp, knowing that a spent round would be his undoing.

Sliding his arm through the submachine gun’s shoulder strap, he crouched beside the now-dead sentry, relieving him of the radio equipment, the device both a blessing and a beast. Although he’d be able to monitor sentry movement in and around the tower, when the dead sentry failed to report in, MacFarlane and his cutthroats would know they had an enemy in their midst.

CHAPTER 84

Edie sat up and hacked, the frigid sea air scalding her lungs.

Damn Caedmon Aisquith.

Her head ached. Her body ached. And, not unexpectedly, her heart ached; Caedmon hadn’t trusted her to pull her weight. So what did he do? He cut her adrift. No warning. No discussion. Just wham-bam, thank you, ma’am.